Chapter 6:
Beyond the Delusion
HOW MANY TIMES HAD he imagined the day he was born?
Was he welcomed, or was he shunned…? Probably shunned. But he couldn’t help holding out hope that, just maybe, somebody out there had rejoiced at his birth.
Innocent, ignorant, and pure children had crushed his hopes to pieces. The little boy who’d once dwelt in innocent illusion could never come back from that.
✦ ✦ ✦
“Ah. You’re here.”
“Most people say ‘Welcome home.’”
“Welcome home, young master.”
“Meh…”
Yulan had slipped through the front door and walked down the hall past the row of servants welcoming him reverently. As he’d done so, a familiar man in a chef’s coat had been about to slip past him, a paper bag in his arms. Chesuit met Yulan’s eyes to acknowledge his return but didn’t bow his head. He’d been instructed to act deferentially in front of guests, but the only guest the mansion had had so far was Violette’s friend, so that order was probably pointless.
With the upcoming birth of the crown prince and princess’s child, Yulan’s household had gotten proportionally busier. Chesuit was under no obligation to welcome his master home at this hour, since it was late at night; Yulan wondered why he was still up. (One look at the bag the chef held, filled to the brim with vegetables, gave him a general idea.)
“I don’t know why you came out to greet me at this hour. I don’t want a second supper.”
“I ain’t that shameless, and you know it,” Chesuit snorted. “I got some good spices in. I thought I’d make preserves and prep tomorrow’s breakfast while I’m at it.”
“Ah. That makes sense…”
Though Yulan wished his chef would just finish up and go to bed, he wasn’t interested enough in Chesuit’s life to suggest that. Chesuit wouldn’t heed his advice anyway.
“Want a midnight snack?” Chesuit asked.
“Sure… I’ll be getting back to work after my bath, so bring something to my study then.”
“Very well, my lord.” Chesuit loosened his tie roughly and cracked his neck.
Yulan’s study felt farther away that night, probably because he was walking slower than usual. He knew that the weight in his shoulders was from fatigue, not gravity. In addition to his normal duties, he needed to respond to the congratulatory cards the crown prince and princess had received, as well as contact many more people all over the world. He felt pressed for time to complete all that, although he was sacrificing sleep. Since he could function just fine on very little, his main source of stress was only getting to admire his wife’s beautiful face when she was sleeping.
He didn’t use the study reserved for his work too often. This was partly because he rarely brought work home. As a rule, once Yulan came home, he wanted to spend as much time as possible by Violette’s side. Instead of bringing work home after hours, he preferred just going to work earlier. That sentiment hadn’t changed, but at the moment, he no longer had the luxury of following that schedule.
“Damn it… I just know those old government farts are doing this on purpose.”
Yulan tossed a bag onto the sofa; it contained a bundle of papers that should’ve been somebody else’s work. Every movement he made, down to the way he tore off his suit jacket, expressed his headspace. His mouth and fingertips were rough and wild, especially since he had nobody to take his mindset out on.
He lowered himself into his desk chair, which still had a brand-new luster after years, and released a long, long sigh. Covering his eyes with his arms, he let his head hit the back of the chair. With the light obscured from view, the backs of his eyes started to relax. When one was fatigued, the eyes were the first place to feel it. Next were the arms, shoulders, and neck.
His work wasn’t all that nerve-racking, but there was a mountain of it that he slid farther and farther down every day. A sure percentage of the elders—who cockily brandished their outdated experience—had opposed Yulan’s very birth. Yulan’s adoptive parents prioritized logic when it came to life and death, but Duralia’s highest figures were devout followers of the color gold, especially the ancient ones. Because they worshipped golden eyes, they couldn’t allow anyone outside the royal family to possess them.
I wonder how the ones brazenly calling for my murder back then feel when they have to look me in the eye now?
“Maybe we could just kick them all out until he’s enthroned…”
Yulan’s brain was starting to hurt. To make Violette his, he’d let himself act recklessly in all kinds of ways, but he’d forbidden himself any recklessness after he got her. He didn’t know what stray attacks might hit her. If only people would just complain to Claudia directly. All the endless energy poured into continually tormenting Yulan would be better spent confronting and disposing of him directly. If they really felt their beliefs were correct, they should act on that and point the finger of judgment at him, shrieking for his death.
That’ll all be over once the baby’s born… At least, I hope so.
A new member of the royal family resided in the crown princess’s womb. If everything went smoothly, that child would grow up to carry Duralia on their shoulders.
Above and beyond the number of children and their sexes, the most important question was whether any would have golden eyes. And what if Rosette couldn’t give birth for some reason? Or was unable to have more children? Ideally, her firstborn would be a golden-eyed boy, but the beginning of a life was always outside human hands. Until the moment that baby cried, nobody could affect that little life.
Even if Rosette’s firstborn was a girl with eyes of another color, there were ways to remedy that. In simple terms, Claudia only needed to father children until he produced a prince with golden eyes. If Rosette was incapable of that, he could take a concubine. Yulan knew all too well that that was how some golden-eyed boys were born. Unfortunately for them, their very existences were stifled if a boy with golden eyes had been born before them. If a golden-eyed prince wasn’t born first, they’d be welcomed with open arms. The only hurdle of that practice was that it required one to ignore logic, morality, and basic human rights.
As somebody whose own life proved that a man could be raised without regard for such human rights, Yulan didn’t balk at that, but the purehearted prince was fundamentally poorly suited to that method.
“And messy international incidents are such a hassle…”
Leaning on the chair’s armrest, Yulan fell into thought. The only people who would simply be happy about the baby’s birth, regardless of other facts, were Duralian subjects, one portion of the fanatics. Since Yulan was among those handling the situation, he needed to consider all the possibilities and have countless backup plans. Since he’d experienced a similar matter, he was especially good at imagining every potential scenario—even scenarios Claudia and Mila overlooked.
A sharp knock at the door stopped his thoughts cold.
“Young master, may I come in?”
“Sure.”
Chesuit popped into the study carrying a pot and a large soup cup. Not much time had passed since Yulan saw the chef, so Chesuit must’ve warmed leftovers—something Yulan could eat with one hand while working and not get his fingers dirty. This consommé had become a late-night staple in the mansion; Chesuit had strained all the solids out just for Yulan.
“Take that bag with you,” Yulan said.
“All right. Boy, it’s heavy.”
“Yeah. It’s a stack of documents. Waste of paper, if you ask me.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks,” Yulan drawled. “Any changes with her?”
“She and Marin are deciding what to get Princess Rosette. She’s doing well, but she worries about you.”
Yulan didn’t respond.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut about your work habits, but at least make sure you get enough to eat.”
“I really hate that bossiness, Chesuit.”
“You’re welcome.”